


lost/lost/found

by anarchetypal



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - GTA AU, Fake AH Crew, M/M, Mushrooms, Recreational Drug Use, ryan haywood being a huge naive baby etc etc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5806591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchetypal/pseuds/anarchetypal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn’t new (except it is, a hundred thousand new sensations brought on by the high that Ryan wants to spend ages exploring). They’ve done this before, plenty of times, just— Not like this. Only in the aftermath of heists and jobs gone wrong and gone right, all adrenaline and rough edges, fucking in hallways and bedrooms and dirty motels, and so Geoff’s mouth isn’t new, Geoff’s hands aren’t new, Geoff’s noises aren’t new, because they’ve done this before.</p>
<p>They’ve done this before, except never like this.</p>
<p>Not when they’re both soft and gentle and searching, when Ryan has nothing covering his face, when Geoff’s not playing the boss, when there’s no blood and kisses aren’t leaving bruises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lost/lost/found

**Author's Note:**

> aka that shrooms fic i said i was writing like a month ago. content warning for drug use (mushrooms and mentions of pot) and panic attacks.

How it happens is: Ryan finds them on the top shelf in the closet on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

He’s looking for—god, he doesn’t even remember, a gun holster or a box cutter or maybe nothing in particular, because that’s how things have gone lately, a byproduct of the new person he swears he’s become.

The New Ryan is Old Ryan plus crew, plus time, plus a few near-death experiences, plus Geoff. New Ryan is not paranoid, silent, or unfeeling. New Ryan is, as Geoff puts it, allowed to be harmlessly curious, for fuck’s sake, and so New Ryan does things like go into one of Geoff’s closets in search of maybe-a-box-cutter and find a glass jar high up on the top shelf.

Which, alright, ‘find’ is probably not the right word for it, because what he actually does is skim a hand over the shelf and discover the jar by knocking it off the edge. Ryan swears as he fumbles for it, hearing something rattling around within until he manages to grab it without it breaking.

He’s not really sure why he looks inside.

Ryan’s still peering into the jar through the glass when Geoff pokes his head into the doorway, presumably reacting to Ryan’s earlier _ah, fuck_ as he struggled not to drop something that would have probably shattered all over the floor.

“What’s up?” Geoff asks conversationally. Ryan glances up, guilty without really knowing why, a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar, and proceeds to handle the situation with the grace and eloquence he’s so widely renowned for.

Which means he holds up the jar a little and blurts, “Uh…” and then sort of trails off with an uptick of a question.

And, alright, here’s a secret: the big, bad Vagabond is maybe not as familiar with drugs as one may imagine. The big, bad Vagabond’s strongest partaking during most months is Tylenol. Usually, if he has a question about drugs, he asks Ray.

And so Ryan is used to Ray’s exasperated I-am-not-your-walking-Urban-Dictionary-you-narc look, not Geoff’s curious, amused expression as he glances at the jar and fixes Ryan with a raised eyebrow and a grin.

“Shrooms,” Geoff says, and then, when Ryan just stares at him, adds, “mushrooms” like he’s talking to a child.

“I know _that_ ,” Ryan says, maybe flushing a bit, because he _does_ , he’s not _that_ naïve, alright, he’s not blind and the mushrooms are dried but whole and—and very clearly _mushrooms_ , okay, so he wasn’t asking what they were.

He thinks maybe he was asking something more along the lines of _Why do you have these in your closet?_

Geoff seems to see it on his face, and his grin widens as he laughs a little. “A contact gave ‘em to me a while back,” he says, shrugging.

“Oh,” Ryan says, because what else is there to say? He’s curious, because of course he’s curious, the obvious question rattling around in his mind like the shrooms had in the jar, but he’s still trying to reconcile New Ryan with Old Ryan and so he can’t make himself start asking questions. He realizes he’s still palming the jar, and he turns abruptly to put it back, reaching up to the top shelf and setting it down carefully.

“I’ve tripped a handful of times,” Geoff offers while Ryan’s back is still turned—because, god, he knows Ryan better than Ryan thinks he knows himself sometimes. Knows when Ryan’s curious and when he’s disinterested and when he’s angry or confused or scared. Ryan hasn’t admitted he’s thankful for it, not to Geoff or to himself. “More often when I was younger, but once last year, couple times the year before that.”

Curiosity satisfied, Ryan nods, finally leaving the closet. Geoff bumps hips with him gently as he walks out, and Ryan tries not to stiffen. Geoff does this sometimes, reaches out with his tactile predilections like it’s nothing, like Ryan’s allowed to have that with Geoff, like Ryan’s allowed to have anything besides an occasional adrenaline-fueled fuck after a heist, like it’s not supposed to make him second guess everything. He’s still trying to get used to it. To figure out what it means.

(He knows what some of it means, like the look Geoff gives him sometimes, the one that stops his breath in his throat, the one that’s like Geoff knows every terrible thing Ryan’s ever done and still wants to take him to bed.)

“Wanna try it sometime?” Geoff asks, voice casual, and he’s shutting the closet door, not even looking at Ryan. Maybe that’s intentional, maybe it’s not, but Ryan appreciates the few seconds he gets to ponder the offer without being watched.

And it really is only a few seconds before he shakes his head and says, “Nah.” He isn’t foreign to being high, but it’s just not something that grabs his interest enough to accept.

And the whole thing is just as casual as any drug offer he’s ever experienced has been; Geoff nods and says, “Cool,” and then they sit down and watch some shitty reality TV show, and that’s the end of it.

——

Except, as it turns out, Ryan might be a little bit interested.

He hadn’t _lied_ , alright—he really hadn’t been interested, had put the whole thing out of his mind pretty quickly, but the conversation with Geoff had maybe planted a seed of intrigue within him. Maybe. Possibly. It might be a thing, currently, that he’s thinking about.

He doesn’t get _obsessive_ about it; it’s not The Tell-Tale Heart with shrooms, but he’s thinking about it.

Because he’s got the time to. The thing about criminal life is that a lot of it is about waiting—for stakeouts to end, for meetings to begin, for your getaway vehicle to show up, for people to die of blood loss—so Ryan waits, and inevitably, he remembers the whole thing with Geoff and the closet and the shrooms.

And maybe he starts thinking about what it might be like to trip.

Again, he’s no stranger to being high, but common sense says the occasional toke is a little different than a mushroom trip. So maybe he’s curious. That’s normal. Natural. Expected, even, maybe, given what he does for a living and the people he has working relationships with.

So this is just a matter of professional curiosity. That’s it. It’s professional curiosity.

It’s professional curiosity that drives him to show up at Geoff’s penthouse at nearly two in the morning after a solo job when he’s on the verge of a panic attack or brutal homicide or running for his life or driving out of the city at a hundred miles an hour to escape one of his sadly, pathetically regular bouts of crushing, crushing terror—at what he does for a living, at what he’s capable of doing with his own hands, at the fact that a group of people he calls _crew_ know his face and his name, at the fact that he’s more vulnerable now than he’s been in years, in _ever_ , possibly. It’s professional curiosity that makes him say in a breathless rush, when Geoff answers the door, sleepy-eyed and confused, “I want to try it.”

It takes a few moments for Geoff to seem to take in the sight of him and let him in. Ryan doesn’t want to know what he looks like right now, just hopes to any listening deity that he doesn’t look as panicked and shitscared as he feels.

But it’s useless to hope that, he knows, because Geoff can look right through to the center of Ryan like he’s made of cellophane, made of nothing but his thoughts and feelings, and so Geoff’s expression goes concerned, goes gentle, and Ryan fucking hates it.

“No,” Geoff says.

Ryan can’t process it immediately. “What?”

“No,” Geoff says again, and he says it gently, calmly, but with a firmness Ryan knows he won’t be able to break, and that’s _not_ what he needs right now, it’s _not_ , he needs to be _gone_ , he needs to be less present, to let his mind be elsewhere, to stop overthinking, to stop dwelling.

He says as much, he thinks, or something along those lines, rushed out and stammering and please, _please_ , Geoff, I need this, I need—

“Ryan,” Geoff says, and he says it like he’s been saying it for a while now. “Hey, _hey_ , easy, shh. Easy,” he hushes, like he’s calming a spooked horse, and somehow it works. Ryan can breathe, at least, can actually process Geoff’s hands on his arms, holding him steady and still like an anchor but not restraining him.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan chokes out. He wants to run. Every atom in his body is pleading, screaming at him to leave and possibly to never come back.

He lets Geoff guide him to sit on the couch.

Geoff doesn’t ask him what’s wrong, or if something happened, or if he wants to talk about it. Ryan’s so grateful he wants to cry.

“I can’t let you have it,” Geoff says eventually into the echoing quiet of the penthouse.

Ryan frowns automatically, tries not to bristle. “Why not?”

“It’s not going to help,” Geoff says patiently. When Ryan gives him a look, he raises his hands palms up. “I’m serious. You need to be in the right mindset before you do this. I’m not bullshitting you. You take it now, you’re gonna go on a bad fucking trip. It’s gonna make you latch onto whatever you’re feeling and send you on—on some kind of shitty panic-spiral of self-loathing and fear,” he says, with an air of someone who knows from experience. “You gotta be relaxed. Or happy. Or— Not this.”

Still, Ryan tries to press it. “But—”

“You feel like you need something to calm you down, go knock on Ray’s door,” Geoff says sharply, before he sighs and shakes his head. “But he’ll tell you the same thing I told you. I’m not giving any to you, Ryan, okay, and that’s because I give a shit about you. But— Look, you can stay here. I’ve got plenty of open beds, or we can stay up and watch that stupid cooking show you like, I don’t care. Whatever you want.”

All of Ryan’s instincts are still urging him towards the door. He’s still right on the edge of a panic attack, and he’s frustrated, and his head’s so loud he doesn’t know what the hell to do with himself.

“You can stay here,” Geoff says again, voice gentle, expression open, right hand resting near Ryan’s shaking left one. “Alright? You don’t have to go.”

Ryan doesn’t.

——

It passes.

It always does, even if it feels like it never will. The panic and the terror and the anxiety seep out of Ryan’s bones, and by the end of the week, even the background hum of urgency fades out. Paranoia and panic-fueled fight-or-flight responses are what saved Old Ryan’s life on a regular basis before the crew. With the crew, with New Ryan, he doesn’t need that level of urgency to make it to the next day.

He’s still trying to learn how to make it stop happening, how to stop his brain from trying to save him from nothing.

It’s easier, with Geoff. Ryan’s starting to get that.

And so it passes, and work continues, and Ryan goes to bed at night and gets up in the morning and breathes and eats and lives, and it’s another lazy Sunday afternoon at the penthouse when Geoff says, “You could try it today. If you want to.”

Ryan looks up from the television. There’s a rerun of something he’s never seen before playing, but he’s comfortable on the couch, sock-footed and in an old shirt that’s as likely to be his own as it is Geoff’s, or Jack’s, or Jeremy’s, and he’s…content. He’s good. Safe.

“Yeah?” he asks, tipping his head back to rest against the back of the couch as he considers it.

Geoff shrugs, walking over to lean against the couch. “If you want. We’ve got nothing going on tonight or tomorrow. No pressure either way.”

“I know,” Ryan says, smiling a little. He thinks about it. Eventually, he nods. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” Geoff asks, looking at him.

“Yeah,” he decides. “I’m up for it.”

And it’s as simple as that. Maybe it’s a sign as to how limited his drug-related experiences are, but Ryan’s sort of expecting some pomp and circumstance, some metaphorical fireworks, a neon sign proclaiming his upcoming illicit drug usage. Something.

Instead, Geoff just nods, says, “Cool,” and disappears into the hall, returning with the glass jar. He grabs a little food scale from the kitchen and then sits back down, setting the jar and the scale down on the coffee table in front of them. Ryan edges closer, curious despite himself.

Geoff grins at him a little. “Excited?” he asks, and maybe he’s teasing a bit, but Ryan lets it slide, because, well. Yeah. He’s kind of excited.

Regardless, he doesn’t respond, just reaches over and opens the jar, and when Geoff gives him a nod, he reaches in a plucks one of the mushrooms out and examines it while Geoff starts setting up.

There’s still a part of him that’s halfway expecting it to look like the little white buttoncap mushrooms he can get at the grocery store and toss in a salad if he’s feeling particularly health-conscious. The one he holds now is long-stemmed and dark brown and nearly brittle-dry, so much so that it—

“Oh,” Ryan says. The mushroom’s in two pieces in his hand, suddenly, and he sheepishly tips it back into the jar while Geoff openly laughs at him.

Still, he’s comfortable and interested, and watches Geoff measure out a portion with a thoughtful expression. He gives Ryan a once-over, like he’s making up his mind about something, and takes away mushrooms until the scale reads about two grams. It looks like a lot, but, honestly, what the hell does he know?

“Gonna give you a dose on the smaller side just to be safe,” Geoff says.

Ryan is mildly alarmed. “That’s all for me?”

“It’s just a couple grams,” Geoff says, looking amused. “What were you expecting?”

“I thought— I don’t know, I thought I’d just need one mushroom,” Ryan admits defensively. When Geoff starts to laugh, he frowns. “Well, how was I supposed to know?”

“Oh, god,” Geoff says, still giggling. “Fuck, okay, Ray’s right. You’re adorable.”

“ _You’re_ adorable,” Ryan fires back automatically—a product of experiencing one too many of Michael’s comebacks, probably—though it doesn’t exactly have the insult power he’d intended. “Look, just— Shut up. Shut up, alright, how about that.”

Geoff manages to stop laughing after a while. Mostly. “Alright,” he says, looking suspiciously like he’s still fighting a grin. “Look, you can do this a few different ways.”

“You don’t just—” Ryan gestures vaguely, “—eat them?”

“I mean, yeah, you eat them. You can go ahead and just eat ‘em straight like that. I know a guy who can make them into chocolate bars. If we had more time…” He trails off, shakes his head. “Anyway, they kinda taste like shit, so. Some people take a mortar and pestle to them and put it in a drink or food or something. A lot of people just take the whole ones and put ‘em in, uh. A peanut butter sandwich.”

Ryan stares at him. “A peanut butter sandwich,” he echoes warily.

“Yup.”

“Stop making fun of me.”

Geoff puts his hands up, laughing. “I’m not, dude, I swear I’m being totally honest with you from here on out. Last thing you need is to start worrying that I’m lying to you about shit. Like I said, mindset’s everything with this. Peanut butter and shrooms are absolutely a thing.”

“My mindset’s good,” Ryan assures him, and he means it. He’s a little flustered by the teasing, maybe, but honestly? Anything that gets Geoff to smile is alright in Ryan’s book, even if it’s at his own expense. “Think I’m just gonna eat them straight, though.”

Geoff shrugs. “Up to you,” he says. “Gonna grab you some water, though. Help you wash ‘em down.” He grins and tugs at Ryan’s ponytail as he stands up.

Ryan bats half-heartedly at his hand and looks at the mushrooms on the scale while Geoff’s in the kitchen. “Are you…not going to have any?” he calls out, a little confused.

“Nope,” Geoff calls back cheerfully. “You need a babysitter,” he adds, walking back over and sitting down. In response to Ryan’s raised eyebrow, he gives a knowing expression. “We don’t know how you’re going to react for your first time. Somebody needs to stay sober and make sure you don’t accidentally fall off the roof if you decide to go up there.”

Ryan takes the water from him and snorts. “I could just not go up to the roof,” he points out.

“I’m just saying. Mostly I’m just here to make sure you have a good time, you know? It’s easier for me to do that when I’m sober. That’s it.” Geoff watches him a moment. “And I’m gonna be here the whole time, dude,” he adds, leaning sideways a little so Ryan will make eye contact with him.

Ryan’s tempted to make some sort of sarcastic comment, but what ends up coming out of his mouth is a quiet, embarrassingly sincere, “Thanks, Geoff.”

Geoff smiles at him. “Anytime.” He elbows Ryan gently. “You ready to do this, or are you gonna keep staring at the shrooms for another few passion-charged hours?”

Ryan lets out a huff of a laugh. “Alright, yeah, I’m ready,” he says, and picks up one of the mushrooms, turning it this way and that in his fingers. “So I just…?” he says, miming popping the thing into his mouth.

Geoff nods. “Keep in mind that the longer you chew it for, the quicker the onset will be. And then, yeah, just go for it.”

“Go for it,” Ryan echoes dryly. He regards the mushroom another few seconds, then pops it into his mouth and starts chewing before he can talk himself out of it.

It’s…alright, it’s awful. Geoff was right. The taste is horribly earthy, edged with something vaguely like sunflower seeds, if those seeds were dipped in all the worst-tasting things Ryan’s ever had mixed together. He can’t help it; he pulls a face.

Geoff laughs, because he’s a dick. “How is it?”

Ryan flips him the bird as he reaches for the glass of water. Fuck, it’s dry as all hell and impossible to get down until he takes a few swallows of water. He’d meant to keep chewing, but, god, this is supposed to be a _good_ experience. He’s not subjecting himself to this more than he has to.

“Peanut butter next time,” he rasps when he swallows, feeling a little betrayed, rolling his eyes when Geoff dissolves into laughter again. The rest of the mushrooms go down in a pretty similar way, and he can’t say he’s not relieved when he finally finishes them off and downs the remaining water. “Oh my _god_ , it’s so bad. Why’s it so bad.”

“Don’t be a baby,” Geoff says helpfully.

Ryan flips him off again as he gets to his feet and storms off to invade Geoff’s bathroom and wash his mouth out properly until he gets the taste out of his mouth entirely, which is maybe a little dramatic but also entirely necessary in his opinion.

“You didn’t prepare me for that,” he tells Geoff mournfully when he returns to the living room.

Geoff’s got the television on, and he raises his hands defensively. “I said they taste shitty!”

“Gavin’s cooking tastes shitty. That was like eating an atomic bomb.” Ryan sits down heavily on the couch. “Never again.”

“Don’t make that decision yet, Haywood, Christ, you haven’t even started tripping yet,” Geoff says, exasperated. “ _You_ didn’t prepare me for how much of a baby you were gonna be.”

“It’s just— It’s a lack of professionalism on your part, really,” Ryan continues, smiling slightly when Geoff makes a fed-up noise and turns up the volume on the television.

Geoff tells him it’s likely to take a while for him to start feeling anything, so Ryan gets comfortable. He notices he’s able to do that here now, where a few months ago he’d probably still be standing stiffly off to the side. Hell, a few months ago, he wouldn’t have agreed to do this at all.

They make it through a couple episodes of some crime procedural with lots of dramatic camera shots and predictable plot twists. Halfway through the third episode, Ryan realizes his body’s starting to feel heavy, a little numb, limbs just a bit harder to lift, like he could sink right through the couch. He’s relaxed, like he’s taken a couple hits off of one of Ray’s bongs. It’s nice.

He enjoys that for a while, through to the end of the episode and into the next one. When he turns to tell Geoff about how he’s feeling—lets his head loll to the side on the back of the couch so he can look at Geoff, really—Geoff’s already looking at him, smiling. Ryan can’t help but smile back. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Geoff returns, and he looks fond. “How’re you doing?”

“Good,” Ryan says. He pauses, considering his own voice. “Sounds are kind of…sounding weird? My voice sounds weird coming out of my mouth,” he tries to explain.

“That’s normal,” Geoff assures him, grinning, and, oh. Good. That’s good. Ryan wasn’t worried, really, but it was something he probably would’ve worried about if he’d thought about it for much longer.

He remembers Geoff had promised to take care of him, and that abruptly fills him with a light, full sort of comfort. Everything’s going to be fine.

“Talk,” he commands, because he likes Geoff’s voice like this—he likes Geoff’s voice always, but it’s like there’s a buzz behind his throat that makes his timbre all lilted and nice.

Geoff laughs, and it’s _wonderful_. “Alright?” he says. “What do you want me to talk about?”

“Anything,” Ryan tells him.

And so Geoff talks—about work, about Jack, about books he’s read and movies he’s watched; it’s hard for Ryan to follow exactly what he’s saying sometimes, but he’s pretty sure he still manages to keep the conversation going.

“And maybe tonight after you come down we can go driving or something,” Geoff’s saying. The buzz in his words has filtered out into something smoother, gentler. The television’s turned off; Ryan can’t remember precisely when that happened, but there’s a soft, ambient music playing right at the cusp of Ryan’s hearing, and it’s the best thing, plays sweetly with Geoff’s voice. He’s a little concerned he’s hallucinating the music—that’s probably a thing, right?—until he sees Geoff adjust the volume with one of the remotes, and, ah. Okay. God, he wants to listen to sounds _forever_.

It takes a moment to remember what they were talking about. “Driving,” he echoes abruptly. The word rings out loud and he winces. “Yeah, we can do that,” he adds, quieter.

“It’s a really nice day,” Geoff explains, and that’s enough to open up an entirely new world for Ryan.

Getting up takes some effort; his body’s still heavy, still resists movement, but once he’s up and moving, everything gets a lot easier.

He wanders towards the window, has to stop a few times to touch various pieces of furniture—things _feel_ different too, he’s starting to realize, and the walls are breathing—and then he has to struggle to focus, to save those observations for later in favor of finding out exactly how nice it is outside. He’d noticed it was a clear day earlier, but, Christ, it’s _beautiful_ out the window.

Los Santos has a terrible smog problem, and it’s like the city always has a permanent film over it, dampening and darkening everything.

Colors seem so much brighter now, like someone turned up the saturation on the world. It’s evident inside, everything a little sharper and fuller, but looking out the window is nearly breathtaking. The city is practically _glowing_ , buildings towering and humming with life within, the ocean in the distance stretching out into infinity.

After a while of admiration, Ryan decides the view is incredible, but it could be better. The window’s like a barrier between him and the rest of the world; he hyper-fixates on fingerprints and smudges on the glass until he finally jerks away, turning to look for Geoff, who’s still on the couch.

“ _Geoff_ ,” he says urgently.

Geoff seems to take a hundred years to turn and look at Ryan, like he doesn’t understand the urgency of this situation. “Yeah, buddy?”

“I need to go upstairs.” He pauses. “ _We_ need to go upstairs. Right now.”

Geoff smiles. “What, you want to go up to the roof?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Ryan says, and he’s aware he sounds impatient, desperate, but suddenly nothing’s ever felt more important. He feels like—god, he feels like he’s experiencing something that needs to be puzzled out. Like he’s looking for a door that’ll throw the trip wide open, let him understand some grand, Important Thing. “Geoff, _please_.”

“Okay, okay,” Geoff says, getting to his feet. But, Christ, he’s so _slow_ about it—Ryan finally grabs his hand and starts tugging him along out of the penthouse and up to the roof. Geoff makes a noise and looks at him, surprised, but Ryan barely pays attention.

It’s not until he feels the cold concrete through his socks that he realizes he doesn’t have shoes. Or his jacket. Geoff managed to slip on a pair of sneakers on the way out, but they both shiver for a moment just past the now closed door to the roof. The wind feels indescribable on his skin, biting and gentle all at once, a velvet pocket knife.

He’s starting to realize he could fixate on anything right now, anything at all, the huge expanse of the universe or the smallest blade of grass, and that’s—that’s overwhelming, actually, the idea that he could lose himself like that.

He takes in a breath to try to pull himself together, lets it out in a rush of air that sounds like a whimper, and suddenly Geoff’s there, his hand on Ryan’s shoulder, a pause before Geoff presses against him more fully, like they’re huddling for warmth. He should be pulling away, he thinks, but, god, it feels good. It’s the only thing that feels good.

“You okay?” Geoff asks. “Is this okay?”

The spiraling thoughts stop, dissipate completely. The physical contact grounds him, somehow, reminds him what’s real and what’s important. “I’m okay,” Ryan says, a little hesitant, because he doesn’t want it not to be true. But seconds pass and he’s still fine, not scattering away with the wind, with his thoughts. He’s on a rooftop, in Los Santos, with his boss.

With his friend.

With his—something.

He shakes it off, remembers the point of this, finally, the desire to see the city with nothing between him and it, and he grasps clumsily for Geoff’s hand and pulls him along towards the edge of the building. There’s a concrete barrier along the edge of the roof, and Ryan leans against it. Looks out.

“Oh,” he breathes.

Because the city—maybe he’s never noticed this before, but the city is _alive_ , really alive, not the empty concrete nothing he’d so often dismissed it as being. The high makes buildings sway, pulse, breathe; sounds rise up from the streets and mingle together into symphony, the ocean rushing, all the colors colliding like fireworks.

“It’s amazing!” he shouts, grinning stupidly and not caring in the slightest, delighted when Geoff grins back.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks.

Ryan opens his mouth to respond and pauses, trying to figure out exactly how to say it, and realizes he can’t. “I don’t— I don’t have enough mouths to say all the things I’m thinking,” he tries to explain, words stilted, brow furrowed, and Geoff laughs.

He’s a little disappointed he can’t share this with Geoff. He’s grateful to have someone watching out for him, but he wants Geoff to see the colors and feel like he’s a flawlessly integrated part of the universe and all the admittedly clichéd shit he can’t help but think of and feel.

It’s incredible. It’s the high, he knows, but it’s _incredible_ , and there’s a connection here he can’t deny. He feels connected to this city. Wants to reach out from the rooftop and take handfuls, mold it, own it with this crew he’s a part of.

This crew he’d kill for. Die for. Live for.

Everything’s abruptly too much and not enough. The rush of thoughts and feelings hits him like a tangible thing, makes him stumble.  He feels like he could topple forward and fall forever.

Geoff’s fingers curl into the back of Ryan’s shirt, and he uses the grip to pull him back slowly, gently. Ryan realizes he was gripping at the concrete barrier hard enough to scrape up his hands. “You’re okay,” Geoff says. “You’re fine.”

“I don’t want to fall,” Ryan says breathlessly, terrified.

“You won’t. I’ve got you.”

“I don’t want—”

“Ryan,” Geoff says, and he pulls Ryan into his arms, the warm weight of him pulsing through Ryan’s clothes and heating him to the core. “Look. _Look_. We’re fine, right?”

“Right,” Ryan says slowly, not quite sure if he believes it.

“Look,” Geoff tells him again, and he does, and—and— Okay. Okay. He feels grounded, is aware of his feet on the concrete and how solid it is, how steady he is standing there. He’s okay. They’re okay.

“Oh,” Ryan says.

Geoff smiles, lets out a breath. “There we go. See?”

“I see.”

“Okay. Okay, good.”

They’re quiet for a moment, leaned against each other, Geoff’s arms around him, and Ryan feels the wind on his face and feels very small.

“I want to be a part of this,” he says nonsensically, and he _knows_ , he knows it doesn’t make sense, doesn’t know how to find the right words, but it’s like he’s right on the cusp of understanding something.

“Part of this?” Geoff echoes distractedly, and he’s pulling Ryan back towards the door, because Ryan’s shivering pathetically now.

“Part of— You. Them.” He gestures vaguely, pauses, thinking. “Crew,” he decides on.

Geoff gets him indoors, pulls the door shut with finality. Warmth washes over them, makes Ryan’s eyes go heavy immediately. Emotions are coming in waves now; they feel like physical things, and it’s almost too much, the feelings and the sounds and the sights all together. He’s holding on to Geoff’s shirt for dear life like it’s the only thing that can keep him from getting too far into his own head.

Geoff is looking at him. “Crew,” he says.

Ryan blinks slowly. Nods. “Yeah.”

“You don’t think you’re part of the crew?” Geoff looks stricken.

Ryan struggles to say it right. “I don’t think I know how to let myself be part of the crew.”

“Oh,” Geoff says, and he sounds heartbroken, and that’s—that’s not what Ryan wanted at all, this is _terrible_ , he wants to fix it for Geoff but he doesn’t know how.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan blurts out. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“God, Ryan, no, don’t _apologize_ —”

“I don’t know what to _do_ ,” Ryan says desperately, and Geoff lets out this broken, hollow little laugh that makes Ryan ache.

What he does, in the end, is do the only thing that’s felt good since he started the fucking trip: he grabs Geoff and pulls him close.

He doesn’t remember when they start kissing.

This isn’t new (except it is, a hundred thousand new sensations brought on by the high that Ryan wants to spend ages exploring). They’ve done this before, plenty of times, just— Not like this. Only in the aftermath of heists and jobs gone wrong and gone right, all adrenaline and rough edges, fucking in hallways and bedrooms and dirty motels, and so Geoff’s mouth isn’t new, Geoff’s hands aren’t new, Geoff’s noises aren’t new, because they’ve done this before.

They’ve done this before, except never like this.

Not when they’re both soft and gentle and searching, when Ryan has nothing covering his face, when Geoff’s not playing the boss, when there’s no blood and kisses aren’t leaving bruises.

And so it’s great, it’s the best thing, but it feels _wrong_ , feels bad, a spark of guilt jolting up Ryan’s spine and making him break away, eyes wide, a string of apologies on his lips. Geoff looks soft, lips parted, smiling, and Ryan wants this so bad he aches with it, but this is a part of Geoff that doesn’t belong to him.

But then Geoff raises an eyebrow and gives him a questioning look. “Why’d you stop?” he asks, and, oh.

Again, he feels like he’s on the cusp of understanding something.

Ryan’s an infamous criminal, carries a moniker that makes people whisper and a mask that makes people turn and run; he kills for a living, faces near-death on a regular basis, but, god, nothing scares him like this.

“I…didn’t think you wanted to,” Ryan says, but it comes out like a question, like confusion. Nothing makes sense anymore.

Geoff looks genuinely baffled. “Why the hell wouldn’t I want to?”

Ryan’s not completely sure.

Geoff looks at him for a long moment and then sighs. “C’mon, come inside,” he says, and he reaches out and tugs Ryan towards the penthouse by his belt loops, and Ryan doesn’t flinch away.

——

Things feel less overwhelming back in the penthouse. Ryan settles back on the couch and tries not to look at Geoff looking at him. He feels like he’s on the first climbing hill of a roller coaster. Not afraid, but anxious. Anticipatory. Maybe a vague sense of unease before the swooping, inevitable fall.

Geoff sits down next to him, fixing him with an incredibly weighted expression. Ryan tries not to squirm as the silent seconds stretch on. Finally, Geoff clears his throat. “I’m an idiot.”

That’s…not exactly what Ryan was expecting.

Geoff gives him a look. “You’re also an idiot.”

Ah. There it is.

“Sorry,” Ryan says agreeably. The anxiety is making a real effort to press through, but it’s warm in the penthouse and the couch is comfortable and Geoff has the ability to calm him down like nothing else, even in these circumstances. The high rolls gently in the background, like an accomplice to everything he’s feeling.

It’s quiet again for a moment. When Geoff speaks, it’s firm and honest and it drops into the center of Ryan’s chest and shatters like a crash test car. Like a glass jar full of mushrooms. “I want you all the time.”

Ryan stares. “You— What?”

“I want you all the time,” Geoff repeats. “Not just— Fucking after a shitty job or whatever. Not just to burn off energy. All the time.”

“Oh,” Ryan says, because what else can he say?

“I want you all the time, and we fucking want you here—the crew _wants_ you here, Ryan,” Geoff says. “We like you. We give a shit about you. You’re a part of the big, shitty, stupid family. Whether you like it or not.” He grins a little, then sobers. “You’re wanted here, alright? You can’t have one foot out the door anymore. You don’t _have_ to live like that. Not anymore. Trust me. Just—trust me, that’s all I’m asking.”

And that’s all Geoff’s ever really asked of him, like it isn’t the hardest goddamn thing in the world.

He wants to trust Geoff. It’s just that all his instincts, every self-preservation tactic he’s ever had to learn and learn and relearn is telling him to run, always, all the time. One foot out the door of every room he’s ever been in. The wild, primal thing in him says _run_ , says _if anyone tries to stop you, cut them down_.

But he wants to trust Geoff. Wants to trust the crew. He hasn’t wanted to trust anyone in a long, long time.

And maybe it’s as simple as that.

“Okay,” Ryan says. It comes out hoarse. Geoff looks at him, surprised, and Ryan repeats it. “Okay. I’m gonna trust you. I’m—gonna try.” He can do that. He thinks he can do that.

He thinks he understands now—he’s allowed to have this. He’s allowed to have this. He just needs to let himself take it.

Geoff looks relieved. “Good,” he says, “good,” and a warm feeling builds in Ryan’s chest and pulses outwards. The high takes every emotion and cranks it up to eleven, Ryan gets that now, and it’s awful when he feels bad, it’s terrifying, but when he feels good?

It’s like being lighter than air. Like being complete. He wants to live in this forever. Wants to chase the feeling.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asks.

Geoff looks hopelessly fond. “Fuck, you’re cute,” he says, reaching to pull on Ryan’s ponytail.

Ryan lets out a huff of air as he tries to defend himself. Geoff manages to give the ponytail a tug anyway. “Is that a yes or no?” he presses, maybe sulking a little bit.

“C’mere,” Geoff says, and his hands are gentle and soft as he cups the back of Ryan’s neck and draws him in.

Ryan loses track of time like that, kissing Geoff, exploring in a way he hasn’t dared to let himself before—gentle hands, a slow wandering, taking the time to familiarize himself with the noises Geoff makes when Ryan sucks at his lower lip. Kisses down his neck.

It’s the best fucking thing. He’s pretty sure he could do this for hours. He’s not fully convinced he _hasn’t_ been doing it for hours when he breaks away to really look at Geoff, at how red and full his lips are now, and how he’s breathing a little harder, resting a hand on Ryan’s hip.

“Feeling okay?” he asks, and Ryan nods.

“Yeah. I feel really good. Feel like I’m supposed to be here,” he admits, and Geoff does this pleased little sigh as Ryan leans in to start kissing him again.

He’s kissing the most powerful person in the whole city, and Geoff yields under him, lets him explore, responds to every touch until they’re both gasping a little, and it’s a rush, all of it, this sense of power gone gentle, gone fond and easy.

But when Ryan’s hands wander down below his waist, Geoff catches his wrists.

Ryan’s pretty sure he lets out a confused, disappointed little whine, because Geoff laughs and uses his hold on Ryan’s hands to bring them up and kiss his knuckles.

“Not while you’re high,” he says.

And—alright, that’s fair, he can behave, but he’s still going to sulk a little about it. “Later?” he asks as Geoff releases his hands.

“Later,” Geoff says, nodding, and then his smile goes sharp, cocky. “God, yeah, absolutely later. When you sober up, I’ll take you apart.”

Ryan shivers and buries his face in Geoff’s neck.

——

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he must—lying on the couch half on top of Geoff, kissing and talking and watching the walls breathe until the sun dips low behind the buildings out the window.

He wakes and shifts, struggling to sit up, alone on the couch. “Geoff?” he calls out. He feels more and less aware at the same time. Feels like he’s gone through some sort of catharsis. When he looks at the walls, they stay perfectly still.

“You slept through the comedown,” Geoff says from the kitchen. Ryan shifts to look at him over the back of the couch. “You’re lucky. A lot of people don’t like it.”

“So it’s over?” Ryan asks, rubbing his eyes, trying to wake himself up.

Geoff makes his way over, carrying two mugs. “Should be, by now,” he says, glancing at the clock and handing off one of the mugs. “You feel normal?”

Ryan drinks from it without even looking into it. It’s coffee, exactly the way he likes it. He wonders when that happened, when Geoff learned it. “I feel— I don’t know, like I understand things better,” he decides.

Geoff leans against the back of the couch. “You remember much?”

Ryan pulls a face, considering it. “The important stuff, at least,” he says.

Geoff looks at him. “Yeah?” he says carefully.

“I trust you,” Ryan says, and he watches Geoff’s body language go lax in relief. “And I’m wanted here.”

Geoff smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “You are.” He nudges Ryan aside, climbing over the back of the couch to sit, nearly spilling his coffee and then Ryan’s as he gets settled. “You thought you were gonna fall off the roof,” he adds, grinning broadly like an asshole, and Ryan groans and grabs the blanket draped over the armrest to give himself something to hide his face in.

“You’re a dick.” Still, Geoff reaches out and tugs at Ryan until he yields, shifts to lean against Geoff. He feels Geoff press a kiss against his temple, sweet as can be, and he’s okay. He’s good.

The trip was an experience. He decides it was a good one, really, in the end—it helped him work shit out, understand that he’s allowed to be here, allowed to settle here, allowed to be happy. And that’s a relief, and a surprise, and something that’s going to take some time to adapt himself to completely.

But he’s wanted here, and he’s leaning to trust.

He’s learning to stay.

Ryan leans back against Geoff with a content sigh and shuts his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the penthouse and the music still coming in through the television speakers and Geoff’s closeness.

And then Geoff starts to laugh, low and close to his ear, and he frowns warily. “What?”

Geoff tries to stop giggling long enough to speak. “I’m just— You thought you were gonna fall. That fucking barrier comes up to your waist. You’d have had to climb up and _then_ take a running leap to avoid the balcony that’d be like ten feet below you.”

“Geoff, I swear to god, if you tell anyone—”

“I’m telling _everyone_.”

**Author's Note:**

> i am evidently becoming the person who writes people getting ryan high, literally what's next, i'll take it, this is my life now, prompt me at my writing/inspiration blog http://anarchetypal.tumblr.com/


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